


The Ecstasy of Gold

by misha906 (BoopPhysics)



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow, Superman - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26228707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoopPhysics/pseuds/misha906
Comments: 3
Kudos: 77





	The Ecstasy of Gold

His arrival was precipitated by death. 

Clark and the League had been hard at work dealing with seemingly random and horrific crises erupting across the globe. Reports of nuclear weapons appearing in the night sky. Hexagonal windows into other worlds that leaked out the havoc heaving heaven. Hundreds of monsters appearing off the coast of Africa. All this mere hours before the golden man streaked through the night sky and cratered in the Canadian tundra. Clark had thought nothing of it as he carried him to the Fortress of Solitude to await transport to the Watchtower—just another victim of the random violence—he thought.

Empty, was what most would call him. The golden man was empty. He laid underneath all manners of scanners and monitors and uttered not a single word. His mouth sat in a perfect downward impassive crescent. His eyes saw nothing, sunken and listless as he stared at the ceiling. They’d presumed that whatever had sent him here had also summarily broken him so, and were resigned to keeping him comfortable while he died.

He quickly learned the truth less than ten hours later, from a woman who waltzed into the Fortress with a cup of coffee in hand as though she lived there.

“I don’t think I’m the right person for this job,” Clark admitted as he studied the story laid before him. An alien. Something so ancient and powerful that it eclipsed euclidean knowledge. A parasite. One that fed on lives and civilizations so as to sustain itself. Something distinctly inhuman.

“You are,” Contessa said. 

“How are you so sure?” Clark asked.

“I have a feeling about it,” the woman answered.

“Feelings should hardly be the deciding factor in the fate of an alleged genocider,” Clark said.

“Mine are,” she replied. Clark chuckled dryly at her confidence. She continued sipping at her coffee.

“And if I fail?” Clark asked.

“You won’t.” 

“If I do?”

The woman put her coffee down. “Then I will have made a mistake and done irreparable harm to your world,” she said.

“Do you make many mistakes?” Clark asked.

“I try not to,” she answered. 

Clark was not a man of deliberation, most days. Hard to be one, when so much of his life existed in those seconds and moments in-between a child being crushed by a train or a bomb that’s burnt out its fuse. He found the momentary silence of deliberation daunting, and so he filled it with the vim and vigor only a Kansas farm boy could bring.

“Fine. I will do it,” he said, rising to his feet and turning to look back at the statuesque alien sitting on a medical bed behind him. Their eyes locked, and Clark blinked.

\--

He had nary a clue where to start. Clark was no psychologist, or behavioral anthropologist, or even a surrogate uncle. To be entrusted with Scion’s life and supposed rehabilitation was more daunting than anything even Darkseid’s most troubled nightmares could throw at him. 

Clark decided to return to Smallville, with Scion in tow. Ma and Pa didn’t question it, but he made sure to explain anyway. He’d never told them a lie in his life, and he certainly wasn’t about to start now. 

“But I don’t have a clue where to start,” Clark admitted, sitting across the kitchen table from his father. It was a breezy spring night, and so coffee followed dinner along with some lemon meringue pie. The Kents had set aside a plate of food for Scion, but he did not touch it, having immediately sat down on the living room couch when he walked in and refusing to budge ever since, forcing Martha to crochet in the armchair instead.

“It’s certainly different than most of your usual problems, son,” Jon admitted. “But you’ll pull through, I have faith.”

“It’s just...that’s not even his real body. It’s a mask he’s put on. There’s not even any organs inside of him. He’s an alien masquerading as a human,” Clark said.

“Is that what you think of yourself, son? A masquerade?” Jon asked.

“I’m not an—” Clark began to speak, but cut himself off as his father’s words struck home. He smiled, stood, and picked up the coffee pot to refill his dad’s mug.

“It’s a little different though, he’s not exactly the size and age of a toddler,” Clark said, settling back in his chair and tilting his chin towards the living room.

“No, but every dog can learn new tricks,” Jon said. 

Clark retreated to his thoughts once more, ruminating on what new things he could possibly teach an ancient organism. Jon decided for him. 

“Tell you what,” he said. “If you can’t think of anything right now, stay the night and think it over. We still have the guest bedroom furnished and I doubt this Scion of yours is going anywhere. Tomorrow morning you can help me start plowing and then call up your friends in the League. One of them’s got to have an idea.”

The next day found Clark presenting a watering can to Scion. The golden man looked at the gardening implement, then back at Clark. Scion blinked.

“Some work could do you good,” Clark explained. He jostled the watering can in his hand then pointed at the freshly plowed and seeded garden behind the house. The fields, the important and larger part of the farm, had already been plowed and seeded in the early hours of the morning. 

Scion still did not move. With a sigh, Clark walked over to a patch of damp soil and began drizzling the water over it. He walked over several of the small plots, refilling the can as he went and making sure every last one got its necessary water. When he had watered about half of them, he gestured with the watering can towards Scion again. 

“Now you try,” he said.

Scion held out a hand, the first physical response Clark had ever gotten. He leaned forward to place the handle of the watering can in Scion’s hand, but when he let go, the can floated up by itself and began sprinkling water in the same plots that Clark had already attended to. 

“Not quite what I meant,” Clark said.

The watering stopped and the can straightened as Scion tilted his head. He raised his other arm, and several watering cans spontaneously sprung from the barn to sweep across the singular potted tomato plant, back and forth in perfectly timed synchronisation.

Clark sighed. “We’ll work on it,” he said. 

\--

 _Misunderstanding_ Scion spoke, and Clark was momentarily lifted off his feet. No one else seemed to understand exactly how powerful simply the entity’s ability to communicate was. It was a voice loaded with force and power, broadcasted across all conceivable wavelengths and then some. It overloaded his senses with the conceptual libraries broadcasted in a single silent enunciation. It was hard to imagine anyone in the galaxy could communicate with such efficiency. Many could not even hear it.

Clark could, and he is grateful when Scion has the wherewithal to seem abashed and resort to pointing a finger at the child they’d just rescued. 

“What don’t you understand?” Clark asked. He didn’t turn to face Scion, his attention still being kept by the boy, making sure that he was unharmed and that he continued to be until the necessary emergency responders arrived. He had been home alone, and playing with things he shouldn’t have, and Clark made sure to impress upon the boy that he understood his mistake.

Scion pointed at the burnt house they’d just rescued the boy from, then back at the boy.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Clark explained. The intervening months they’d spent together had given him valuable insight into Scion’s nonverbal communications. It was a necessity, considering how boisterous his verbal ones were.

The sound of sirens took Clark’s attention once more. He leaned down, whispered a final few words to the boy, walked him to the paramedics, and took off into the sky again. Scion followed at a much more sedated pace.

Another hour found them with another case of arson, this time at a mall. Clark sprung into action the instant they arrived, twisting and winding through linoleum and concrete as a red-blue blur and moving civilians as safely and as far as he could. Once everyone was safe, he rose back into the air and drew in a deep breath to put out the fire.

Before he could, a pulse of light emanated from Scion. The fire winked out of existence, uniformly, like the tiny wick of a candle snuffed out by a pair of fingers. Scion turned to Clark and shook his head. 

“The point is to make sure that the people are safe, to save as many souls as we are able,” Clark explained. Scion shook his head again.

“Of course you should. If it’s within your power and ability, you sacrifice nothing in helping those that can not help themselves,” Clark continued. Scion shook his head.

“Sixteen microseconds off of three millenia?” Clark asked, shocked. “That’s what you’re worried about?” Scion nodded.

Clark sighed. “That’s such...we’ll work on it,” he said.

\--

Two years, that’s all it took. Two years for the golden alien god to learn how to converse with human language. Two years for Scion to turn from an impassive observer to what could charitably be described as disagreeable. 

“Come on, man, you can’t just sit around all day staring at the computer, come outside and play with me and Krypto.” 

Scion did not respond to Superboy—Jon, named after his grandfather—’s tugging at his shirt, still solely focused on the words and pictures flitting across the screen. He wore shirts, now, as well as pants. Clothing had taken Clark more than a few months to convince him to partake in, and still to this day Scion never considered anything more than a pair of pants and a ragged t-shirt necessary for his day to day.

“I’m busy, Jon,” Scion said. 

“Busy doing _what?_ ” Jon demanded. “You barely leave the Fortress these days, what’s gotten into you?”

“I am busy not understanding,” Scion said.

“What aren’t you understanding? Maybe I can help,” Jon said.

The slurry on Scion’s screen halted on a singular image. A painting of a coastline defined in grey-greens and detailed with farmers tending to their land, ships sailing upon the sea, and the clay-red tile rooftops of a city visible in the distance. 

“A painting?” Jon said. “That’s what you don’t get?”

“Yes,” Scion said.

“Okay, what about it don’t you get?” Jon asked.

“What is the meaning of it?” Scion asked. 

Jon took the deepest and longest look that a ten year old can give at the painting. “I have no idea,” he declared after dedicating several of his precious seconds to the task, and pulled on Scion’s shirt once more. “Now come outside and play.”

“What do you mean you do not know?” Scion asked. “This was painted by a human. You are a human. You must know.”

Jon shrugged. “Don’t got a clue. Looks pretty, though,” he said.

“Is that the only reason that you humans paint?” Scion asked. He looked frustrated. “So it looks nice?”

“Most of the time, yeah,” Jon said.

Scion tried to digest Jon’s words. His nonexistent stomach did not find them risible. “That’s stupid,” he said.

“You’re stupid,” Jon retorted. “Who cares about a painting that much anyway? Come outside and play.”

Scion ignored him and turned to face the painting once more. “No,” he said. “No, I need to...I will... I’ll work on this.”

\--

He had not felt anger in so long. Other things, yes. A veritable gamut of words, phrases, and things that Clark helped him experience. He knew the words humans used for them. Happiness. Sadness. Disappointment. Irritation. Shock.

Anger was a new one.

It coursed through his being, a tantalizing slither that convulsed muscles and beaded sweat across his body that refused to be wicked away. He had felt this once, in another world, surrounded by humans wielding so many parts of him against him. He used it then, pulling on that impulse to continue his crusade against his test subjects, but now it felt draining the longer he held on to the anger.

“It’s the only thing that matters,” Scion declared, teeth bared in anger.

“It isn’t,” Clark said. 

“After you are extinguished, after your death, that is finality. You are gone, vanished. You matter for nothing. You will matter for nothing. To perpetuate eternally is the only meaningful goal in life,” Scion said. 

“So do you think my father’s life has been meaningless?” Clark asked. 

The two of them floated above the Smallville cemetery. Scion had been the one to call Clark to meet.

“Do you think it’s not?” Scion asked. He waved an arm wildly. “Look! He can no longer affect the world! His death has brought suffering to those who loved him! He is gone!”

“But his life brought prosperity and joy to those around him. You can celebrate that and his kindness. You should celebrate that,” Clark said.

“Paltry platitudes for someone who can not protest them,” Scion said.

Clark sighed and gestured for the two of them to return to the earth. As the two sank to the earth, Clark directed them to start towards the now recognizable path to the Kent barn.

“She told me, you know, about your species,” Clark said.

“What of it?” Scion asked.

“She told me that you are wholly consumed with combating the threat of death, to self perpetuate,” Clark answered. 

“Is that so wrong?” Scion demanded. “Is it so wrong not to want to suffer like the humans do?”

“They suffer, but they endure. It’s spectacular, really, how resilient people are,” Clark said.

“Pathetic resilience if they die in under a century.”

“You know what you need?” Clark said, halting in his tracks as inspiration struck him. Scion walked right into him. “You need to travel.” 

“I can fly loops around this planet as easily as most humans breathe,” Scion said.

“There is a stark difference between flying above them and traveling amongst them,” Clark said. “Try it. Take some time for yourself. We’ll call you if we have any emergencies.”

“You want to distract me from my path. You will not,” Scion said.

“Just give it a try,” Clark said.

And so did the warrior take up his mantle and wander to the corners of humanity. He could not go far, reduced as he was; he could not slingshot himself to galaxies beyond and witness all life as his friend had asked of him, yet he was not so powerless that he could not travel through the planet of humans. 

Five years in Budapest. Three decades in Milan. An entire century roaming the Asian continent. Six short, yet loving months with a woman in the Australian outback who reflected the thinker to such a fashion that for a brief second he thought that she had returned to him. She did not. She was no stellar constellation whose serene sail spanned the void to enrapture him. She didn’t even hold a part of the thinker within herself. Yet she twinkled and shone so bright and familiar that Scion reflected on that peculiar word Clark had told him so many years ago and pondered if souls could truly exist. Through it all, Scion saw and he learned. 

\--

His departure was anticipated with love. 

It was a long time coming. Centuries, to the average man. Years after they’d departed and set off to colonize the stars and flourished as a species. Scion had gone with them in the beginning, an opportunity to chart new lands and see new sights, and give help in ways only someone superhuman could. 

Yet he always knew he’d return to that farmhouse in the middle of a Kansas field at some point.

It wasn’t the original Kent farm. Villains, nature, and time had seen to its deprecation long ago. Newer buildings stood close, now, encircling one of the last few plots of fallow land on the planet and its lonely yet pristine homestead. He made sure to sufficiently water the flowers—while holding the watering can with his hand—on his way in. 

The house was packed. It didn’t matter whose side you were on, everyone who knew Clark Kent in some capacity had ensured they could make their way to Smallville today. Jon met him as he entered. 

“I made it in time, I hope,” Scion said.

“More than enough,” Jon said. He was holding a tray in his hands. “Cookies? Lemonade? They’re fresh.”

Scion politely declined with a raised hand. “Could I see him?” he asked.

“I think he was waiting for you,” Jon said, and led him upstairs.

Age will always win in the marathon of life. Everyone is surpassed by it at some point, no matter how desperately they attempt to outrun it. Clark was a sad sight, withered and crumpled on his bed after an epoch of fighting. Scion gently sat down at the chair conveniently placed at the bedside.

“Scion.” His voice was hoarse, yet still strong. 

“Clark,” Scion returned.

“How have you been?” Clark asked.

“I’ve been fine,” Scion answered. 

“Was I right, or was I right?”

Scion smiled. “You were right.”

Clark tried to laugh, but started coughing instead. Scion passed him a glass of water from the bed stand.

“So why are you here talking to a dying man instead of pursuing life?” Clark asked.

“I think we both understand that I need to be here, today of all days, Clark,” Scion said. Clark hummed a neutral tone.

The two sat in companionable silence, letting the noises downstairs take their fill of the moment. They didn’t have a need for it.

Eventually, Scion spoke again. “When I first appeared, I was not a kind man,” he admitted. 

“I know,” Clark said.

“I have killed innumerable beings, across galaxies.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know if I can be considered a kind man, despite all that I’ve done in the last hundred years.”

Clark startled him by turning to face him. The springs in the bed and the rustle of the sheets made a strained sound. Scion blinked. 

“You’ll figure it out,” he said.


End file.
